


Freaks

by Boton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Promiscuity, Rare Pairings, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 10:37:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8529811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boton/pseuds/Boton
Summary: “Morning, Freak,” she said at full volume; if she was going to have to suffer through a hangover, she wasn’t about to spare him.He cocked his single visible eyebrow at her and said, “If our activities of last night are any indication, that moniker would fit either of us.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> See the pairing? No, really, see it? Because yeah, I'm going there. Not explicitly, but I'm going, so you've been warned.
> 
> Rated T for implied sexual relations and implied drug use.
> 
> **  
> Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and his universe are the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Sherlock is the creation of the BBC and its partners, and of co-creators Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. This work is for my pleasure and that of my readers; I am not profiting from the intellectual property of those creators listed above.

Sally Donovan sat up gingerly in the bed and swung her legs over the edge, trying to move her aching head as little as possible. The bed, she thought, was the one nice item in this otherwise depressing single-room flat, speaking of an owner who allowed himself only rare comfort – or, more likely, spent what little money he had on indulgences. The rest of the small room was cluttered with second-hand furniture, stacks of papers and books, and what looked like a complete collection of lab equipment in the kitchenette. No coffee this morning, then, she thought.

She quickly pulled her knickers and bra off the floor, sliding into her pants and quickly reaching around her back to hook her bra, when she felt her bedmate stir. Standing up to slide into her jeans, she turned around to see a tumble of dark curls and one piercing, if still sleepy, blue-green eye staring up at her from an untidy mound of covers.

“Morning, Freak,” she said at full volume; if she was going to have to suffer through a hangover, she wasn’t about to spare him.

He cocked his single visible eyebrow at her and said, “If our activities of last night are any indication, that moniker would fit either of us.”

Sally gave a short chuckle. “You only want me for my handcuffs,” she flipped back at him.

The eye continued to look out as Sally slipped on her shoes and shirt, felt at her hair and gave it up as a lost cause until she got home, and grabbed her handbag.

“Not an inaccurate assessment, but not complete,” he said.

Sally paused by the door. “I’d ask where to find you, but I know that you’ll find me. That’s kind of creepy, you know,” she said, opening the door to the small, dark hall as the eye followed her out. 

On the way down the stairs, she bumped into – literally, seeing as the stairs were very narrow – an imposing man with a shock of thinning ginger hair and a wardrobe that looked like it cost more than the rent for the entire flat she had just left. The man appraised her, then continued on to the door she had just left and entered unannounced. Sally thought to wonder about this unlikely visitor, then realized that she preferred to know as little as possible about that Freak’s day-to-day life.

***  
Mycroft entered the flat and looked around. Upon Sally’s departure, the bed’s occupant had fallen immediately back to sleep, and Mycroft surveyed the dingy flat with some dismay. His eyes finally settled on what must have been a thrift store coffee table, build of faux-chrome table legs and a chipped piece of glass on the top. Mycroft reached down into the only clear spot on the table, and picked up a bit of the powdery residue on top. He touched it to his tongue, winced, and picked up the receipt for take-away curry that had a short list scrawled on back. Turning back to the bed, he let his shoulders sag and said, “Oh, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sat up in the bed, an angry look crossing his face. “Why are you here, Mycroft? If it is to disapprove of my lifestyle, you may assume that I have previously noted your objections, and you have no need to renew them.”

Mycroft tried again. “Sherlock, you have so much potential, and yet you insist on throwing it away. My contact called to say that you had lasted less than a week at this last job.”

Sherlock threw back the sheets and stood naked in front of his brother; Mycroft noted his overall thinness and again sighed, as Sherlock grabbed a tatty dressing gown from the end of the bed and put it on.

“I’m hardly likely to suffer through years as a bench chemist doing research for someone else’s profit,” he grumbled.

“You wouldn’t have to,” Mycroft said. “You could be doing research of your own, if you would return to university and take additional degrees. Your graduate thesis alone…”

“Was puerile, predictable, and expedient,” Sherlock said. “It was exactly enough to complete the degree, nothing more. I have no intention of spending my life in an ivory tower, either, and dying as the author of a bunch of journal articles no one will ever read.”

“At this rate, you will have no reputation to take to academe,” Mycroft retorted, more heatedly. “But you have to do something; how are you even able to pay your rent, to say nothing of your – extracurricular – activities?” he asked with a sniff, glancing at the powder strewn on the table.

Sherlock tightened the belt of his dressing gown. “If you remember, brother mine, I do have limited access to my trust until I turn 35, at which time I will have access to it all.”

“If,” Mycroft threw back, “our parents don’t learn about the way you live your life and exercise their option to keep you on a short leash.”

Sherlock stormed to the kitchen and grabbed the paracetamol from a cabinet, dry swallowing two and returning the bottle to its place. Mycroft sneered and changed tactics.

“And who was your guest, brother dear? You can’t afford to introduce a romantic relationship into this shambles you call a life; you’ve never been able to handle that sort of thing.”

With that, Sherlock drew himself a little taller, as if he had bested his brother. “Yes, I am well aware of your position on caring,” he said. “You may rest assured that there is very little chance I will expend emotion on PC Donovan.”

“Then why?” Mycroft asked, suddenly dropping the façade in hopes of learning something.

“She works at the MET, Mycroft. Oh, yes, she’s just a peon, but the things she sees! Do you know what they do there?”

“Pass out ASBOs and eat doughnuts?” Mycroft asked.

“The detectives solve cases,” Sherlock said, his eyes alight. “Can you imagine, using your intellect and your knowledge to solve a problem? Every problem different, every set of facts unique, every case an opportunity to show that you can’t be bested! Donovan sees only a bit of it, but she’s told me about some of the things that come through the MET, and I could think rings around these people,” Sherlock finished, a little breathless.

“So, you’re using PC Donovan for access to police cases,” Mycroft said a little flatly.

“And for sex, but I thought that was obvious,” Sherlock replied.

Mycroft tapped his umbrella at his feet, then looked up at Sherlock. “So, once again you’re in love with the fantasy of a life filled with swashbuckling adventure,” he said.

Sherlock stormed the short distance back to the bed and fumbled around until he found a pair of black pants and a pair of jeans, both of which he slid on as he continued his assault on Mycroft.

“Oh, for God’s sake! Enough with the pirate metaphors,” he spat. “You cannot possibly keep psychoanalyzing me from a game I played when I was ten.”

“Perhaps not,” Mycroft conceded, then looked at the list on the receipt still in his hand. “But regardless, you need to clean up your life. This,” he said, brandishing the list, “and this flat, and the general irresponsible way you live your life, will not gain you work with the MET or with anyone else, for that matter.”

Sherlock stood, barefoot and shirtless, and watched his brother retreat, pulling the scarred door to the flat shut as he exited. Although he would never admit it, he knew that Mycroft had a point. The drugs could be a wonderful distraction, but they weren’t real; once he came down, he had no satisfaction of having used his mind to best a problem and to wrest a solution from an array of incomplete and often-messy facts. With the excitement of problems to solve and work to be done, he wouldn’t need such artificial stimulus. 

He bent to the coffee table and swept the white powder into its plastic baggie, shoving the bag into the foramen magnum of the skull sitting nearby. He then lit a cigarette and smoked as he walked through the flat.

Pulling on a shirt and shoes, he decided to set out to see what he could learn about the MET detectives’ latest cases and figure out a way to get involved. And if that involved wheedling a few favors from PC Donovan, well – she could be very diverting when he was in the mood.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how often the mood will strike me to turn these ideas into fics, but I keep playing with the idea that Sherlock's back story is more about how he straightened his own life out rather than having someone else do it for him. My first foray, here, attempts to turn the whole "Lestrade convinces the young junkie to dry out in order to do police work" trope on its head, and gives us a nice reason why Sally Donovan may be a little miffed at Sherlock in SiP while still calling him "Freak."


End file.
